Letters to London
by Pinlie
Summary: John, the painfully young and naive doctor and captain, writes letters to a stranger in London from Afghanistan as per his therapist's request (demands.) Sherlock gets bored of his experiments and decides to go through his brother's mail...
1. Chapter 1

John Watson is a young soldier and army doctor. Really young. Too young to be a Captain, let alone a Captain and a doctor, according to some (stupidly stuck-up) superior officers. Too young to be good enough, they tell him. He gets his degree despite this at age 23. He gets promoted the very next year. He doesn't give a damn what they think. But the higher-ups assign him a therapist to monitor both him and his team anyways, to "make sure he is working well with the other soldiers and functioning well as leader" apparently. Ella Thompson decides that writing letters about everything that happens to him will honestly help him get adjusted to his new leadership position. So he does (mostly to get her off his back because, honestly, who new therapists could be so pushy? or so scarily persistent...)

He stares at the scraps of dust covered loose leaf and the chewed-on pen that one of the boys had lent him and decided to just get it over with. He'd write whatever came to mind and the recipient would just have to deal with his word-vomit. Here it goes:

To whomever it may concern-

That is a silly phrase, isn't it? I don't know why this letter would concern you at all. Really, it shouldn't be a bother and you don't really necessarily need to respond if you're too busy or you don't want to or something. Really, the only reason I am concerning anyone (READ: sending this probably pointless letter) is because my therapist made me suggested it. Ah. I'm writing this in pen… which means I can't erase… and as first subjects go, therapists aren't really the kind of thing that make people want to talk to you. Oh well. Brutally honest it is, then.

I guess I should tell you a little about myself... that's a safer topic. My name is Captain John H. Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, I'm twenty-four years old, and I'm writing to you from where I'm posted in Afghanistan. So yeah, I'm at war right now. I don't know who this letter will be sent to; Ella, (that's my therapist), told me she'd send it to a school and they'd give it to someone. I remember being back in school; I wouldn't have ever taken this kind of thing seriously so I guess I can't blame you if you don't. Ta in advance if you do though, it's always nice to know that the real world exists back home somewhere.

So, if you do want to reply, I'd really love hearing about London. I miss it like crazy- well, whenever I have the time to worry about things like that. (Sometimes I'm a bit more occupied with staying alive and keeping my men alive.) Anyways, yeah, if you have the time and the motivation- first off, good for you mate, you're bloody brilliant. But secondly, or rather, my main point is, tell me about yourself. Your life. London. School. Anything about England really, because -and oh boy, Ella's going to have a field day with this if she ever hears of it; good thing reading other peoples' mail is illegal- well, really, because it's easy to get homesick here.

Hope I'm not writing this just to be the butt of some high school idiot's joke, or worse, pity session. Don't know how to end this,

- J.H.W.

There, he'd done it. Written the bloody letter. (Finally.) Now Ella would get off his back about it, and he could move on with his life. He sincerely doubted anyone would bother reading, let alone responding, but that didn't matter. He just wanted Ella to sign his damn papers and let his team back on active service.

*****A/N:** _PLEASE REVIEW! All feedback is appreciated, and if you want this to be continued then please tell me. Thanks:)_


	2. Chapter 2

BORED. Completely, undeniably, indubitably, bored. His experiments were the type that needed to sit for a bit, he was tired of writing new violin compositions, and his advertisement as a consulting detective had apparently gone either unnoticed or hadn't been taken seriously. (Idiots.) All of this led to one tragic conclusion: Sherlock Holmes was desperately going out of his mind with boredom.

He'd have to take extreme measures: time to bug Mycroft. It was risky business (getting on Mycroft's bad side) because he didn't always win their little spats. His arch-nemesis was good, Sherlock would give him that. Sherlock was better only sometimes. Normally, he would love the challenge that this implied but every loss was accompanied by so much smugness on Mycroft's part that it dampened his eagerness to engage in their battles in most situations. Today though- today he required something (anything) to stimulate his mind. So he did what only two people in the entire world have done: he walked into Mycroft's bedroom.

An enormous desk stood in the center of the room (Mycroft had taken it as a spare from his father's study.) Behind it was a high-backed wooden reclining chair that had the softest (and most expensive) looking cushions Sherlock had ever seen backing it. Further back, a bed hid, almost unperceivably in the corner, practically buried beneath its extra blankets, pillows, and cushions and across from the chest of drawers, next to the bedside table with the old oil lantern. It was exactly as he remembered it, all dark wood and silk pillows. Sleek, hard lines and soft, comfortable places to sit, lie, or recline- that was what Mycroft loved. (Also, food. The crumbs on the bedside table and the deeper indentations in the cushions and bed told him that Mycroft had been indulging himself in that particular love as well.)

Sherlock approached the desk cautiously, checking for cameras or alarm triggers because, honestly, with Mycroft, you never knew _what_ you were facing. There was a bunch of papers on the surface, probably just work stuff. (Although not anything too important or interesting, or Mycroft would never leave it out.) He shuffled through them anyways, scanning each sheaf of paper distractedly.

Work, work, report from Sherlock's surveillance team, work, memo about the U.S. presidential election, (and really, _he_ was going to win? Sherlock didn't care much about American politics, but really?!), more work, and oh… Oh! What was this? This was different. A letter, already opened. The envelope and the stamp told him that it was from the Middle East- Afghanistan or Iraq? – and the handwriting of the addresser said doctor all over. He pulled the actual letter from the pre-ripped envelope, unfolding it with care (he didn't need to make it any more obvious to Mycroft that he'd been there, too many hints made catching him too easy) and reading it over quickly.

A letter from a soldier… why did Mycroft have it? Wasn't it supposed to be sent to a school? There wasn't anything special about it, at least not as far as Sherlock could tell. The author of the letter was perhaps a bit above average but he was a hardly a genius. Could he be… missing something? No, definitely not. He needed more data. Sherlock wondered if Mycroft would miss the letter if he took it to experiment on, (just a few tests to collect more information, nothing too damaging.) Or rather, how long would it take for Mycroft to notice its absence, and would that give Sherlock enough time to complete his experiments. If his mental calculations were correct, he could probably manage it.

A few hours and several experiments later, Sherlock had formed a pretty good picture of the author but no clear idea as to why Mycroft had the letter…

Suddenly, he froze. He could hear footsteps – Mycroft's footsteps - coming up the stairs to his room. Quickly he placed a large tome on differentiating between different causes of anaphylactic shock on top of it and dove onto his couch, positioning himself as if he'd been lazily sprawled there. He clasped his hands, prayer-like, beneath his chin and stared pointedly at the ceiling, ignoring Mycroft's less than subtle entrance.

"Sherlock, you know that I know what you've done. Don't be childish."

Sherlock didn't reply. He didn't even move a muscle. If Mycroft hadn't known better, he would've been tempted to check if he was even alive.

"Sherlock, really. These petty arguments are beneath us."

A pause.

"_Sherlock Holmes_," Mycroft barked. His voice, usually so smooth and calm, took on an icy harshness like an icicle dagger. (But much deadlier.)

Sherlock finally looked away from the ceiling, glaring back at his brother.

"What is it _this_ time Mycroft? Don't you have the American elections to busy you?"

"Sherlock, don't play dumb. We both know that it's the furthest thing from the truth. It's insulting."

"I don't mind insulting you," Sherlock muttered sullenly. Mycroft glowered.

"Give me back the letter, Sherlock, or I'll be forced to make you."

"Make me?" Sherlock scoffed. "Making threats is really not your forte brother. You should work on that." He got off the couch and walked around it until he was face to face with him. "How, exactly, do you plan on_ making_ me do anything?"

"I'll tell Mummy. It'll be your fault if she's upset." Mycroft smirked, all vainglorious and snobbish. Sherlock sighed.

"Fine, but only if you tell me why you have it."

"I'm afraid I can't do that Sherlock," he started, raising a dainty, manicured hand to forestall his brother's outburst. "However, I have a compromise. I'll allow you to write back to this soldier, this Watson man, and if you can figure out why I have his letter, I'll tell you."

"I want a copy of the letter," Sherlock stipulated.

"That's fine. Now give it back."

Sherlock spun around dramatically, his robe flapping behind him, and plucked the letter from underneath the big book, handing it off to his brother roughly. Mycroft took it delicately and refolded it on its creases, depositing it safely back in its envelope.

"I'll need your reply by tomorrow morning if you want me to send it." With this last comment, Mycroft strode from the room, gently clicking the door closed behind him.

Sherlock had, in the meantime, fished a piece of paper from the stacks piled everywhere about his room and pulled the pen he'd pickpocketed off Mycroft out of his robes sleeve. Then he lay down on his bed and began writing.

J.H.W.-

What would you like me to call you? Dr. Watson, Captain Watson, Mr. Watson? John? For now, I'll simply address you as you signed your previous letter. As for me, my name is Sherlock Holmes. You can call me Sherlock. I'm eighteen years old, but I'll be nineteen soon, and out of this hellhole of a high school. Did you like college? That's where I'm headed next. I suppose it'll be just as dull as high school, though for some reason all my classmates seem to be of the opinion that it's going to be loads better.

Now, to the crux of the matter. I hope this doesn't disappoint you terribly, but I'm not actually writing to you out of the kindness of my heart or any such sentimental nonsense as that. In fact, I've been reliably informed I don't have one. Actually, you have perked my interest. Well, not you, per se, so much as my brother. You see, he is the British government. And, for some reason, (something I'm still trying to figure out), he had your letter.

You said that the letter was supposedly sent to a high school; do you have any idea why my twenty-five year old brother got it?

On a different note, you requested hearing about London. I do live in London, so I can tell you about it, but I must warn you: my life is not what you'd qualify as "normal." It probably won't be like any of your experiences here. But, since you asked, I shall tell you what I can.

I go to a private school in London called Bartholomew's, a branch off of St. Bart's hospital. It's completely dull, nothing worth hearing about there. I also work as a consulting detective. If you don't know what that is, it's because I'm the only one in the world. Basically, when people, especially the police, can't solve something or are out of their depth, they consult me. I have some fascinating stories about some of my cases (if you're interested in that sort of stuff.)

Most of the London that I see on a daily basis is the underbelly of it. I know the criminals, the homeless people, the dark alleys, the hole-in-the-wall restaurants, and the best places to get taxis. So, if I do tell you about London, you'll have to keep in mind it'll be from a different perspective than you're probably used to hearing about. However, if this doesn't bug you, I wouldn't mind telling you about it. Writing down my thoughts might help me make connections I'd otherwise miss, you never know. (I don't miss a lot though, normally.)

England is as rainy and grey and beautiful as ever. The criminals of London have been especially boring lately, so you aren't missing much in that regard.

Lastly, you may have (or may not have, I'm banking on your multiple high positions, doctor and captain, that you have a higher than average intelligence) noticed that I am not exactly your normal teenager. That said, you needn't worry about me viewing you as a freak or a weirdo for your therapist or whatever else. Generally, I'm the one who receives those titles. If we are to be corresponding thus, please don't be so sniveling and self-conscious in the future. It's irritating.

-S.H.

*****A/N:**

_Thanks for the awesome response! I'll try to keep this going if I keep getting support for it. I've got a few other stories running but I'm having a writers block with them so I'll be concentrating on this for now. Please review and tell me what you think of this chapter! Hope you all have a good weekend!_


	3. Chapter 3

John had pretty much forgotten about the letter three weeks later. Not that he could really be blamed- he'd been busy. His platoon of nearly fifty men had been under heavy fire several times and he'd had his hands full keeping his men safe and in one piece. When they got injured, he was the one to patch them back together. When they were surrounded, out-numbered, and lost, he was the one to think of a strategy to get them out of there. His natural protectiveness and steadiness in the face of danger helped him keep his cool when everyone around his faltered or freaked. (That's why he was made Captain so quickly despite the others' protests.)

But anyways, he'd been busy trying to survive. A letter that would probably never get a reply was nowhere close to a priority. He fought to stay alive all day (and sometimes night) and then collapsed into his bedroll when he had the chance. There was no time to think about stuff like that anymore. All of these reasons probably contributed to the feeling of shock and irrational joy when his name was called, (for the first time since he'd been deployed a year previously), in the mess hall for mail.

He outwardly kept his calm, ignoring his mates' wolf-whistles and jibes about hot girlfriend's. Bill Murray, his second in command and 1st Lieutenant, gave him a pat on the back as he stood to receive it. Bill was a good guy- he always felt bad that John never got post from home and shared the treats he got from his wife with him whenever possible. In return, John saved his life on a near-daily basis. The idiot was just so reckless- it scared him sometimes. John always told him that since he had someone to go home to he should be more careful. Bill had yet to listen.

But back to the mail- John walked steadily to the front to collect it displaying none of his excitement. He didn't open it right away; he was a man who valued his privacy. Besides, this was something personal and precious- he wanted to enjoy it. If his friends were around, as much as he cared about them and vice versa, they would mock him for it. So instead he finished his meal as quickly as possible, (because wasting food is an absolute sin in the army, even when it tastes like moldy cardboard), and went back to his tent to read. A few minutes later he was borrowing paper and a pen from his tent mate and writing back:

Sherlock-

Just John is fine. I must admit, I was more than a bit surprised to actually receive a reply to my letter, let alone two! I'm assuming Mycroft is your brother? Well, with the same last names it'd probably be too much of a coincidence to be anything else. I have no idea why he got my letter, sorry to be unhelpful… You were saying that you hoped you weren't disappointing me by writing back for selfish purposes but honestly I think I prefer it. I don't want pity, as I said, and your letter fascinated me. So, thanks I guess.

Now for your other question: College for me was a bit of a whirlwind: I skipped a few years of high school and college and managed to get my doctorate by age 23 so I'm pretty sure my experience wasn't the norm either. However, I did enjoy it. I made some very good friends in college and the environment of people eager to learn and to live was great. High school does tend to have more bullies and cliques and stupid things like that- college is bigger and people are, for the most part, a bit more mature. (Although, not always. There are assholes everywhere at every age.)

I don't mind that you aren't living a normal teen life. Like I said, my education wasn't exactly normal either. I graduated from high school at age 17 and completed my bachelors in three years and my PhD in three as well. I couldn't afford going a full eight to ten so my counselor and I thought up a way to consolidate it. Not quite standard stuff, but easy enough with hard work and a low budget motivating me.

Well, I'm rambling now… all I meant by that was that I'd love to hear about your London. It sounds brilliant. I might need to get a restaurant suggestion from you if I make it back home in one piece- I'm sure you know all the good ones.

I appreciate your regard and your lack of judgment. Keep me updated on London life; I hope it does help you think.

-John

Two weeks later:

John-

How do you know Mycroft? I never mentioned his name, I'm sure of it. You don't work for him do you?

Assuming you don't, you have questions. Don't be afraid to offend me, it isn't easily done. Just ask. (I'm glad you aren't offended by my lack of civility yet as well. It'd make it difficult to converse.)

Life in London has recently picked up. I've just been called in to consult for a case about four serial suicides, the latest occurring earlier today. Although they're not suicides, they're killings. Serial killings. We've got ourselves a serial killer; I love those, always something to look forward to. Before today the killer kept to a pattern but today- yes, today he finally made a mistake. He accidentally took the woman's PINK suitcase with him. (I believe he left it in the trunk of his car when he took her out of it to murder her and left it there, only realizing his mistake later.) And there was a note, but that has thus far proved unhelpful. Rachel, the note said. Apparently the woman's unborn daughter from years ago- I don't quite understand why she'd still care about it so many years later but I've been assured it is the unexplainable human condition sentiment and that I'd probably never get it. I'm still trying to piece it all together-

Who do we always trust, even if we don't know him? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?

If I could just answer that question, the case would be solved. Well, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary and I've got a case to solve.

-Sherlock

*****A/N:**

_Thanks for your support! Please leave a review if you have suggestions on where to take this or plot ideas, I'm not solid on what I want to happen next yet so if you have input or requests, now is the time to give it. For example, do you think this should become Johnlock or stay platonic friendship? Also, tell me if you like or dislike anything, what to improve, if you enjoyed reading it, if I should continue writing, etc. Thanks for all the lovely reviews so far; they make my heart smile! Keep 'em coming!_


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